Taphephobia
by WrittenOnTheSubwayWalls
Summary: Get too close to the fire and you may be burned alive. Well, he may not be burned, but buried alive is just as horrifying. Holmes never thought escaping from a nailed coffin would be his punishment for eavesdropping. Good luck indeed.
1. First Night

**Taphephobia**

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version in partnership with Warner Bros.

**Chapter 1:** First night

* * *

**Taphephobia:** Fear of being buried alive.

…

It was dark, he remembered.

His back aching, lying on a hard board.

The smell of lumber and rain.

His head was pounding. His ears were ringing.

Pitter patter pitter patter… could be heard just a little passed the buzz.

The sound annoyed him. First hard, then soft; it wouldn't stop!

What happened? Where was he

Moriarty…

The last two things Holmes could remember was the lucky jab that thug of Moriarty's had planted on his right cheek, the next was a sharp crack on the back of his head and all went black…

Right... No wonder his head was killing him.

He opened his eyes, or at least he thought he did. It was pitch dark, not a touch of light. Was he still under the restaurant? The boiler room perhaps? No, certainly there would be some source of light… Unless they shut down everything for the evening…

He felt tight. Closed in, like the walls were holding him in place. He twitched his hand. At least he could move; that's a good sign.

He pressed his left hand against the side of his left leg, testing his consciousness. He was definitely awake. Though he still felt groggy and unreal, the detective figured the best thing for him to do was force himself to move. There must be a door close by, and even if the restaurant was closed for the night, he would find a window or just simply wait in the dining room for the owner to open. Daylight couldn't be that far off. It had been getting dark when he'd left Baker Street.

Moving his head to the side, a strange sensation took him; the echoing sound of his movements. It sounded almost like he was in a closet or a cupboard…a large cupboard… one a full grown man could lie down in at full length...Almost like a-

With a shock of adrenaline, the man's hands flew upward only to smack on a hard wooden ceiling less than a foot away from his face.

No…No!

"No!" His voice was hoarse and stung the back of his throat, his head still throbbing. The voice, too, echoed off the low ceiling and smacked him in the face. His next action was to feel every inch of the walls around him. Raising his arms above him, he felt the decorated curve in the wood, the finely clothed bed of silk under his body, the barely stuffed small pillow supporting his head. His heart thumped. His chest stung with the horrifying realization…

There had to be a latch somewhere... a safety trick...a quick way out from the inside...

He ran his hand over every inch of the seal. Nailed. The whole thing was nailed down.

"Hello? Help! _Damn_. HELP?" His voice was weak, he couldn't scream, shout, anything. His throat felt dry and helpless.

No, it wasn't like him to panic. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to calm down.

Watson.

Watson had tried to get him to stay at Baker Street for the night…

...to not go alone.

_"Promise me you'll stay out of it for tonight. We're talking about Moriarty, not some whiskey abusing thief."_

The memory was running together, but still clear enough to replay over and over again in his conscience…

…

"_Roderick De'brion and Paul Usher." Holmes said aloud. "Two very suspicious men with very suspicious connections…" He filled his pipe with tobacco and lit it.  
_

"_Holmes, I mean it, stay here this evening. It's cold, raining… Holmes?"_

"_Hmm." The detective murmured lazily through puffs of smoke."If I overheard them correctly, they will meet with Moriarty tonight to discuss something undeniably illegal. __Ethelred'__s restaurant. You remember where that is, don't you?"_

"_Are you listening? Forget it, stay here. It's too dangerous, you'll be alone-"_

"_I wouldn't be going alone, if you hadn't backed out on me, dear friend." Holmes's words were sharp and accusing. "However, situations being what they are, a cannot simply let such an opportunity-"_

"_To kill yourself." His friend spat._

"_Don't be dramatic, Watson."_

"_I'm not backing out; I never said I was free tonight in the first place!"_

"_You never said you weren't."_

"_Well, I didn't know I wouldn't be until Mary's mother spoke with her at the market."_

_Holmes didn't say anymore, only crossed from his chair to his desk and rummaged through piles of scribbled on papers._

"_Holmes," His friend tried once more, stepping further into the room. "Please… tell the Yard to deal with it, wait for the next opportunity. Promise me you'll stay out of it for tonight. We're talking about Moriarty, not some whiskey abusing thief." _

_Sherlock Holmes made no sign of answering, so with a frown and a last worried glance Watson left the detective to his business, gently shutting the door behind him. _

…

Holmes coughed and bit his tongue; anything to get the scratching dry pain out of his throat.

He wasn't underground was he?

No, there wouldn't be this much air if he was.

The thought of this Coffin being under the earth made his stomach lurch.

Stop! No! He had to get a hold of himself.

Once again putting his hands on the top of the coffin's lid, Holmes pushed up with all the strength he could muster in his current state. Honestly it wasn't amounting to much and the stress of his failing attempt to push open the nailed down death box was making him all the more uncomfortable. Every nerve in his body pricked him making him sweat and shake even though the wood around him was cold.

Claustrophobia was starting to set in. An itching to sit up. A fear you may never sit up again. His breathing became labored.

This wouldn't do.

Trying to gain control of his body, the detective started knocking and pounding on the ceiling of the casket, getting harder each minute it didn't open. Raw pain shot through his hands, they felt wet…sticky, but it didn't matter. Somebody had to be around! Somebody _had_ to hear him!

Five minutes of this and Holmes forced himself to stop. It was doing more harm than good, something he didn't realize until after his knuckles were bloody and torn.

Burying him alive must have been a spur of the moment idea on Moriarty's part. Whoever this coffin was originally intended for was much taller than Holmes. The bottom piece couldn't even be found with a pointed toe.

The bottom...That's it! If he could reach the bottom, he could kick out the-

"AUHH!" He yelped as a sharp object penetrated his side as he tried to move down towards the end of the coffin. Blowing frustrated air out of his lungs, he roughly searched for what had stabbed him in the dark. It was a nail, of course, hammered sideways into the bottom of the coffin, its sharp point sticking into the skin of his side.

"Damn…Damn AHggh!" He lifted himself up a little in an attempt to move out of it, but he only managed to pull it more.

He was honestly trapped in place now, he couldn't move up, down, right, left... the nail literally pinning him like a butterfly on parchment.

His chest burned with a fear he had only experienced a handful of times during his life.

A fear of suffering... being tortured to death in a manner so horrid...

Leaving him to suffer in his own panic, clawing into the wood until his fingernails fell off and bled all over the thin silk sheets that were already being painted by the ever growing hole in his side.

Holmes couldn't help by question if the nail was there before they dumped his body into it.

Touché, Moriarty.

Imagine if he had, for once, actually listened to the doctor.

* * *

A/N:"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality."- Edgar Allan Poe


	2. The First Day Second night

**Taphephobia**

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version in partnership with Warner Bros.

**Chapter 2-** The First Day/ Second night

* * *

**Taphephobia:** Fear of being buried alive.

…

He must have fallen back into some sort of sleep… or more like unconsciousness.

When he woke he was still cramped; his fingers sticking together with the drying blood from his knuckles and the nail in his side going numb.

His limbs ached to be used; hot frustration itching at his tired panicky mind.

The pitter patter had stopped now and through the cracks of his wooden prison he could see light. The coffin's true owner was probably of the lower class to have such a cheap coffin, yet still not cheap enough for the corpse inside, who wasn't a corpse at all, to break out.

...It was almost funny

Almost.

The ringing in his ears was gone too, thankfully, leaving the barely audible sound of birds and swaying trees.

He was outside. He probably had been all night, the pitter patter being rain.

Rain…

Water. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so thirsty, not to mention the fact that he had to go to the bathroom which just added to his current misery. He briefly wondered how long he could hold it;

Not too much longer.

"Nanna! Nanna!" A little muffled voice broke him from his unpleasant thoughts. It was high pitched and cheerful; a child's! He dizzily started knocking on his coffin's lid again, ignoring the cuts and rips on his hand that were reopening.

After a few seconds another voice chimed something like "Come on, Madeline!" But he wasn't completely sure. Regardless, he kept knocking and pounding. She has to hear him… This was his chance!

Sure enough, not too soon after he'd stopped to listen if the little girl, Madeline, was still close by, there was a light tap on the other side of the wood.

"Madeline!" Holmes shouted, tearing his throat to pieces. "Madeline!"

An abrupt scream made the detective wince and accidentally push harder into the twisted nail. What sounded like a stick bounced off the top of the coffin and off the other side as her screams ran away.

"Wait! Madeline!" He pounded a couple more times before deciding she wasn't coming back. Holmes let his arms rest by his side, fuming with anger and fright. He couldn't really blame her. A muffled cry from a coffin was creepy enough without it saying your name. Now that he thought about it, he probably should have just yelled "Help".

All was painfully silent again. His arms twitched, his stomach gurgling. The wood had seemed to soak in last night's relentless rain and was now damp and sweaty, smelling like dirt and wet fabric. He pulled at the collar of his shirt and unbuttoned his coat, suddenly feeling very annoyed with it cluttering his neck and its tightness pressing against his wound.

Hopefully the girl will tell someone…boasting or scared out of her mind; it didn't matter, as long as someone came.

Then again, who would believe her?

...

The daylight did make things a_ little_ more comfortable, in an odd way. He could see the sunlit wooden edges around him, a bright tan, and some of the damage he'd done to his hands. Along with that, he could also see precisely how much room he had in his prison…It wasn't much; especially since the delightful little gift Moriarty's goons had undoubtedly nailed into the back of his coffin was paining him more than ever.

A few slow breaths entered and exited his mouth.

Watson was probably worried by now.

The doctor had most likely checked on him at dawn, just to ease his worries, and when he found the detective missing, went looking in all the usual places, probably even the restaurant.

How was he to predict this? How could he have possibly known something like _this_ would occur? It wasn't his fault!

Of course it wasn't. He was only the one to get caught, after all.

Holmes cursed and rested one arm above his head.

He guessed he was in a cemetery. The coffin he was now occupying having either been dug up and broken into or, more likely, just arrived and waiting to be put in the ground.

…Put in the ground.

That meant someone had to come back for it sooner or later, he just needed to make sure he was awake and alert when the time came.

Honestly, with a full bladder, dry throat, and an empty stomach, sooner rather than later would be nice.

* * *

...

* * *

One hour.

Two hours.

Three hours… Or maybe it's been four…Five?

_Shit_

Stomach acid burned the back of his throat, begging him to sit up and vomit.

No, he'd rather wet his pants than puke in this hell box. Speaking of wetting, he had long past given up on holding it. Any longer and he might have burst. Desperate times call for desperate measures,

At least that's what he kept repeating to himself.

Little by little the light started deteriorating, his torture chamber getting darker and darker as minutes past.

How long did that undertaker seriously need to keep the damn corpse waiting? The very thought of his _would be_ dead body sitting out from day to day for anyone to take and use for firewood was unsettling; almost as unsettling as the fact that he may very well be a corpse if his luck didn't change soon.

He needed to stay awake.

He needed to be ready.

He needed to stay level headed and calm.

One short cat nap could mean waking up six feet under the earth with little to no air, using the space around as a bathroom as he starved or suffocated to death, whichever came first.

Right… calm…

Stay awake.

Stay awake.

Stay Awake.

Stay…

…

It was dark now; pitch dark. No pitter patter, No swaying trees, No birds…

Thirty minutes must have slipped by until the detective accidentally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: **"Man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so." - Edgar Allan Poe


	3. Fall of the House of…

**Taphephobia**

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version in partnership with Warner Bros.

**Chapter 3-** Fall of the House of…

* * *

**Taphephobia:** Fear of being buried alive.

…

Holmes opened his eyes,

He was back in his room! He was dry, clean and warm, waking up on the floor in front of a fire!

Had it all been some sadistic nightmare?

He looked at his hands. Perfectly fine, no cuts, no torn skin, no broken swollen fingers…But it still hurt to move them.

He flexed both hands, feeling the sticky, cracking, dry blood… What was this?

His eyes cast over the room he had come to know so well. Scattered papers, mismatched furniture, odd tools and devices of his own design… No Gladstone, but that damn mutt could be anywhere.

He took in a sharp breath has his side pulsated with an indescribable pain. His hand instantly grasped the area, but found nothing but smooth skin.

This…couldn't be right.

"Gladstone!" A familiar voice called from outside the walls and whistled. "Come here, boy. Good boy. Come here."

"Watson?"

Putting aside the strangeness of it all, Holmes got up from the floor and threw open the bedroom door, running out into the hall and looking around.

"Holmes, is that you?" Watson said cheerily. The detective didn't answer, but followed the voice to John Watson's old room. It was as if the doctor had moved back in. The room was filled with his possessions. In fact, is looked exactly like it did before he moved out.

"You're a mess." Watson smirked, and turned to face a burning fireplace. Homes looked down at himself. His hands were, again, bloody and torn, his clothes dirty and rumpled.

Shaking his head, Holmes looked away from his hands and suddenly realized that the dog Watson had been calling for was not in the room.

"Watson, where's Gladst-"

"I told you." Watson interrupted.

"Come again?"

"I suppose no promises were broken, you didn't answer me when I asked you." Confusion was slowly starting to turn into nervous fear as the detective uneasily stepped closer.

"Sorry?"

"Forget it. Do you mind leaving? I'm trying to read." The doctor snapped and took two books from his shelf and threw them into the crackling fire. He followed this procedure five times before Holmes snatched one of the books from his hand and flipped through it.

The detective's eyes widened.

These were stories about him! The cases Watson had followed him on. The "adventures" as Watson had so often called them, were now being burned by the very man who had written them!

"Watson!" Holmes's friend turned back to the book shelf and grabbed another two books and threw them into the fire. "Watson, what are you doing?"

"If the fire goes out, the room will get cold." He answered simply in a casual tone. Baffled, Holmes grabbed his friend by the arms, surprisingly not feeling the pain of his bloody raw hands.

"You've spent years writing in those silly notebooks and now you're just going to burn them?"

The next thing to happen was what completely threw the detective off; Watson stepping forward and wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The fear building in the back of his mind was hitting him full force right now, quickening his heart and clouding his vision.

"It's good to see you, old boy." His friend's voice was hushed and full of remorse. The action itself being so unexpected, Holmes could not even return the gesture, but stand awkward and confused until Watson pulled back and walked by him without uttering another word.

"Watson," Holmes forced himself to walk after him, following the doctor out into the hall and to Holmes's now _closed_ door.

Getting out a set of keys, Watson started trying each one into the lock. Every time it wasn't the correct key, he cursed and angrily tried the next one.

"It's not locked-" Holmes tried the door handle; it stopped mid turn, locked. "Well…I was only gone for a moment. That's peculiar. Who locked this? Watson?"

The man didn't answer, but finally found the right key, and with a satisfied smile, opened the door.

What lied behind the door was enough to make a grown man fall to his knees in absolute horror.

His bedroom was now empty. No blazing fire, no mismatched furniture, no… no nothing… Nothing except a large tan wooden box with a golden trim. Surrounding the box was what looked like a whole garden of flowers with hundreds of little cards and letters randomly stuffed in between. His violin was carefully set leaning up against the head of the _coffin;_ its bow resting on the floor in front of it.

He was horrified.

Body trembling and head swimming, Sherlock Holmes stumbled backwards into the wall across from the door only to be dragged forward by his friend, who had an iron grasp on his wrist.

"Watson, What is this! Whose… Where are- ...Stop-"

His friend roughly pushed him forward, forcing him to trip and fall to his knees in the mound of flowers and letters.

He had to be dreaming… This was a dream… Everything was a dream!

"It's a nightmare… Just…" He slowly lifted his bleeding hand to the coffin's entrance and lifted up on it while climbing to his feet.

There inside… was absolutely nothing.

It was empty.

His eyebrows knit together as he tried to make sense of it.

"I don't understand." He whispered, tracing over the casket's silk lining. "It's empty, what does that mean?" Holmes turned around, the question vanishing from his mind as he came face to face with Professor James Moriarty.

…

Holmes jerked awake, his eyes snapping open.

Something was wrong…

Something wasn't… Why couldn't he breathe!

His lungs stung him as he gasped reaching up and hitting the top of his wooden prison.

"NO!" He screamed, but it died away with the lack of air and did nothing but make it harder to breathe.

He was underground…HE WAS UNDERNEATH THE GROUND!

All he saw was white as he slammed his fists into the beautifully crafted wood, feeling his bones crack and break under the force of flesh smashing something so solid in comparison. He'd forgotten about the nail and was now squirming wherever his blind fear took him, kicking and slamming anything, animal instincts taking over his mind and body.

Slowly, dirt started spilling in through the cracks like sand through a child's fingers. The coffin collapsed…Holmes felt nothing.

…

* * *

...

* * *

Everything was quiet and still. The trapped man tapped his index finger against the ground beneath him, feeling the silk covered wood.

He wasn't dead.

He couldn't be… He was in too much pain to be dead.

He took a single breath and blew it out in a quick but undeniable sob.

He was alive.

Still trapped, hungry, bleeding, and covered in his own piss, but alive nonetheless.

He had been dreaming.

Tears staining his face, hot, annoyed, frightened, and angry at himself for stirring up such a self-destroying nightmare, Holmes breathed in large deep breaths until his head started to feel light and dizzy.

"Stop. Stop. Calm down. Don't do this." His voice was shaky and almost inaudible to him. He wasn't even sure any sound had escaped his mouth at all.

This was sick.

Dreaming of death… two dreams in a row; the second having been his worst fear made real. He couldn't stop his body from shaking. He was _not_ crying, but for some reason his eyes kept watering. His stomach growled and pained him, making him feel sick while he did his best to ignore the nail in his side that had all become numb except for a sharp pulsating pain that wouldn't go away.

It was still dark out. But at least he knew he was above the ground.

* * *

**A/N:** "All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." - Edgar Allan Poe


	4. The Second Day

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version in partnership with Warner Bros.

**A/N: _Thank you to all who reviewed! They are appreciated!_ This is NOT the end. I _do_ plan on writing Holmes's reunion with normality.**

**Taphephobia**

Chapter 4- The Second Day

* * *

**Taphephobia:** Fear of being buried alive.

….

_"If the fire goes out, the room will get cold."_

It was a cloudy morning. The light shining through the cracks was dark blue and dreary.

He hadn't slept. He refused. Flashes of both nightmares screamed in his mind, tearing apart the side of him that was still trying to keep calm.

The burning books… The violin… The flowers…The notes… But the coffin was empty, wasn't it? It was empty… It was…

He felt sick.

Was it possible to fall ill so fast? Head pounding, eyes heavy, throat pinching every time he swallowed...

Water.

How much longer could he survive without it?

On average, three days.

"fffhmm."

He choked out a laugh that died as soon as the dryness of his throat caught up with it. A hollow wheeze followed and tremors tore through his body until he was left feeling sicker than before. Had he been upright he would have vomited, if there was anything in his stomach to vomit and he was sure there wasn't.

Food- ... No, don't start.

It was day number two. Day two of London's great detective trapped in a bloody box waiting on what might or might not save him.

It was humiliating.

...Humiliating being barely able to raise his hand to run it down the right side of his own stubbly, tired, and damp with sweat face.

Holmes's had never been so close to death in his life… well maybe he had, but this was by far the most-.. Was there even a word to describe it?

It seemed as though he was holding onto a piece of hope that only a human who stupidly sold himself for happiness would keep. It was almost as sickening as his situation in a whole.

_Almost. _

He must have been falling in and out of a fitful something though, because every time he would open his eyes the light and temperature outside his hell would be slightly different… Or maybe it was just his weak senses playing tricks on him.

The thought briefly crossed his mind that in his situation he'd be better off dead, but he quickly put that train of thought to an end. It was only the second day. According to the average person, he still had one more day to be found and he hadn't completely given up, he never would. No. No, it wasn't in his character to just die.

Someone would come…You can't leave a coffin sitting out in the open forever.

HA! There goes that pitiful search for light again.

How disgustingly desperate.

...

* * *

The day went on surprising faster than expected. Not that faster was a good thing, it just meant he had less time, and the random blackouts he'd been having were nothing short of annoying.

Honestly, he had given up keeping track of time hours ago. There was no way of telling how long he'd been out, when he was out, and his head hurt too much to try and configure it. Instead, he began to think of lighter subjects to ease his itching nerves. At a point, he did somewhat think about his current appearance, but that proved to be a headache subject the moment he noticed that he hadn't needed to "use the bathroom" all day...or all night for that matter. The painful reality of dying by dehydration again became an all too real smack in the face.

He was shaking again, not of fright, but of cold. Why was it suddenly so cold?

* * *

...

"…Spooked her real good. Went and buried her head under her covers all day."

Sherlock Holmes wasn't sure_ when_ he had heard it, but he was _sure_ he heard it.

A voice.

A man's voice.

It was still a little ways away, but close enough to understand through the thick wood and decorated lining.

"Poor thing was petrified. Eh, children will be children. But I've never heard of a girl Madeline's age thinkin' up something so unusual."

Shovels hit the earth around him, jolting him from his uncomfortable trance.

"She's always been a weird one."

"Nah, Imaginative."

"Call it what you'd like, she's as funny as your wife's great-aunt."

The voices were closer now, he was certain. Holmes fought to wake himself up as he felt and heard a shovel clank against the side of his coffin.

"Who in heaven's name rolled this boulder on top of Abe?"

"Huh?"

"Look at this! S'not like the corpse is gonna come out and get'chya! Some vandal went and dropped this boulder on Abe Wiertz coffin."

Holmes frowned. Why was he not surprised there was a giant stone covering the lid to the coffin he'd been desperately trying to escape from.

"Probably scared some shit would break in and steal the body." There was a silence and Holmes felt the box shake. "It isn't exactly a boulder, though, now is it?"

"What?" There was another pause and the clanking of shovels.

"Well, it's a rock."

"What _are_ you going on about?"

"I'm just sayin'… A boulder is a boulder, a rock is a rock."

Holmes coughed and shook his head, but his body did nothing but lay there…

_No…No! Wake up! Move!_

He tried to yell but could barely utter a whisper through the bone dry flesh that used to be his throat.

Taking a deep breath, Holmes shifted sideways. The nail protruding through the bottom of the box deepened itself into his skin, but it didn't matter. He needed to move his arms… wake himself up… whatever the problem was it need to end _now_… He needed to get their attention. They needed to know he was there!

"That's like calling a rock a pebble." The gravedigger continued.

"Will you just help me get this damn boulder off it!"

"Rock-"

"NOW!" The coffin scraped and shook along with the "rock" that was being removed. Minutes later of torturous bumping and slamming, the rock rolled off the opposite side.

"They're just not the same thing…"

"Leroy, _shut up." _Another clank of shovels and Holmes finally lifted his hand to the roof of his prison. The silk under his raw fingertips was hard with dried dusty blood and ripped to shreds.

"Don't get angry I'm only-"

"Fine! It's a rock! Are you happy? Shut up!"

"Don't have to be so-"

_Pound_

With his arm finally deciding to obey him, Holmes used every last ounce of energy he had left to slam the side of his fist into the wood above his face.

_Pound …POUND POUND_

"Ya hear that?"

"You stupid idiot, of course I heard that!" There was a smacking sound and another moment where no one moved or said a word. Holmes quickly filled it with his frantic need to escape; his last bit of adrenaline taking over.

_KNOCK SLAM POUND POUND SLAM... _The flesh on his hand was again beginning to break; the unbearable pain returning_._

Using the pain as a devise to jump start any attempt at using his vocal chords, Holmes shouted "He- hmff HELP! Hel- aHch!"

Another coughing fit was the end for him. His arms dropped to his sides. His body sank into the cheaply covered wooden bed._  
_

"Henry, … I think…I think …" Leroy's voice was suddenly higher pitched and anxious. "Sounds like someone's in there…Like I mean a _not dead _someone."

"Holy lord..."

…

There were _three_ things that Sherlock Holmes's exhausted mind grabbed onto before he blacked out…

First: The incredible rush of cold, but fresh air.

Second: The sound of a shocked man's voice exhaling "That's not Abe".

And lastly: Relief.

….

* * *

A/N: "There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction." -Edgar Allan Poe


	5. Between Dreams and Reality

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version in partnership with Warner Bros.

**A/N: **_**Thank you for reading my story!**_**  
**

**Taphephobia**

**Chapter 4-** Between dreams and reality

* * *

**Taphephobia:** Fear of being buried alive.

…..

Voices…

All different voices.

Voices he didn't recognize.

A woman's frightened gasp,

A child's shouts for attention,

They were all blending together in a mix of dizzy waves.

There wasn't much pain _at first_, but when he felt his shirt being pulled away from the messy wound in his side, white flashes of agony shot through to his barely comprehending brain, shutting down his senses immediately.

He knew nothing from there until a rush of wet warmth came over his body like a blanket. All at once there was pain, annoyance, confusion, and a slightly odd soothing feeling that he refused to acknowledge.

Slowly, he cracked open his eyes.

White, grey, brown, wood, metal, water… Water?

He lightly shook his head, trying to shake the extreme grogginess that was weighing down his eyes.

Hands…yes, human hands; small, but strong, holding him up against the side of a… Why couldn't he think clearly!

Irritation and annoyance pounded on his upper chest. Hands where everywhere, touching him… A hot cloth was pressed to his face... Why wouldn't they leave him alone?

"Stop…"

He must have mumbled, pushing the arms of the hands away. They stopped for a moment to say something in a quiet voice, but he didn't catch it; it was so muffled… so inaudible.

Was he falling asleep again?

Water dripped down his face. A sweet smelling scent forced him to inhale deeply.

Stay awake.

He no longer felt the hands holding him up… or anything for that matter.

Stay awake.

His eyes were closed again, succumbing to the heaviness.

Stay…

Even with his eyes closed, it seemed to get darker with every passing second.

* * *

…

_...It had been a bad situation from the start._

_The basement of the restaurant was very well lit with little room and hardly any place to hide. If not careful, one could easily make a particularly deadly mistake in such circumstances.  
_

_Sherlock Holmes, however, was confident enough not to be irked by inconveniences, and continued on without hesitation.. _

_That was his _second_ mistake._

_"Well well well. Looky what we got here, boys!" All three men pulled out their guns, aiming them at the detective who had, unfortanatly, forgot his. "I think we got ourselves a little snoop!" _

_...  
_

_His head swimmed as the three men punched him repeatedly and threw him into the stone wall.  
_

_"Hold him, Sam!" Stinking of alcohol and tobacco, one of the men leaned down into the detective's face and smirked. "I'm afraid you've eavesdropped on the wrong person, my friend._.."

"Mamma!"

_….Momma ..  
_

_

* * *

_

"Momma!" He jumped at the high-pitched yell and squeezed his eyes shut at the brightness of a sudden light that was making him see red behind his eyelids.

Sunlight.

A full ray of sunlight.

Usually he wouldn't even open the curtains to face the retched thing, but at the moment, it was almost...comforting.

Was he in his room?

"Mamma? Momma where is he now?"

Why was he so dizzy?

His eyes opened with a little bit of difficulty. He didn't feel ill, but, the dry sting in his throat was enough to make him wish he could puke if only to moisten the damn thing.

The detective swallowed hard, trying desperately to sooth his thirsty throat while he looked around the room. White walls, wooden bedside tables, a bed, a door, decorative candles, white curtains with a lace fringe…

Lace fringe?

Decorative candles?

This wasn't his room…

Unable to recall the events that ended him in such a place, Holmes lifted his hand to run nervous fingers through his damp messy hair when he noticed the largeness of the sleeves covering his arm. They had to be twice the size he would normally wear.

Strange room, head spinning, damp hair, and he wasn't even wearing his own clothes? What was going on?

"Momma!" The boisterous voice of a child screeched, almost making the poor man topple off his bed.

The little thud of feet echoed around him as he turned his head slowly to the left where a little brunette girl was leaning in close and grinning like mad.

"Momma, he's awake! Hello!" She waved her hand in his face, spinning his head into a dizzy fit. "My name's Madeline!" She announced proudly and got down on her knees to lean her elbows on the bed Holmes's body was lying on.

"Do you have a name?" She asked, her grin still plastered on her young innocent face. "My cousin said you were a vampire and vampires don't have names… Do you know what a vampire is? When I asked Mamma, she told me I was foolish."

"Madeline!" An older voice of a woman entered the room. Holmes didn't look, but he heard her footsteps approach the bed. Madeline rose to her feet. "Leave him alone! Go, now, shoo!" Madeline hurried away, the women taking her place, but instead of kneeling by the bedside, she pulled over a wooden chair and sat down.

"Good morning." She nodded. She was young, but not too young, and had brunette hair like her daughter. "Beautiful morning isn't it? I thought you would be asleep half the day." Holmes just blinked. Why was he here? "That was quite a scare you gave my husband and brother in-law yesterday. They nearly died of fright." She smiled a calm sweet smile, as if to reassure the fact that she had no intention on hurting him.

Holmes tried to speak, but closed his eyes tightly and choked, only relaxing when a glass of water was pressed to his mouth and he was able to drink.

Finally.

He was still thirsty when he pushed her away, but he had to breathe sooner or later.

Breathe…

"Ah!" He yelped, his hand grasping his side tightly. When had that started hurting him?

"Careful!" She scolded and pulled his hand away while pushing him back into the pillows. He didn't even remember sitting up!

Gently pulling his hand back from hers, and placing it on his side he felt the thickness of a bandage. Pressing a little harder, he could feel what the bandage was for…

What happened? What did he do?

The woman's words came back to him… "That was a good scare you gave my husband and brother in law."

What scare? Who? He quickly unbuttoned his shirt and stared at the bandage. A dot of red had soaked through the cotton, getting seemingly larger as he stared at it.

"Hope you won't miss those old clothes of yours." The woman, glass in hand, stood up and walked to the door. "Had to burn them along with the coffin; there was no saving them."

Holmes watched her leave, her skirts flowing behind her.

Coffin?

Coffin...COFFIN!

His hands began to shake.

His lungs refused to take in air.

His brain fogged up with the fear that he almost forgot existed.

…A fear of being buried alive.

Fear that he might be dreaming every bit of this. Was this real? How could he be sure? It was so real last time. He felt everything. Watson, the letters, the coffin, his violin...

Watson.

What if this time was the same? What if he actually _was_ underneath the ground waiting to die?

…

He couldn't breathe.

"Do you have a family, dear?" The woman poked her head in the room once more. The detective shivered and tried his best to look like nothing was wrong.

A family?

Yes…" Holmes's voice sounded dead, even to him; raspy and lifeless. "Yes. W-... J-John Watson."

* * *

A/N: "There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell" -Edgar Allan Poe


	6. They must be Suffered to Slumber

**Disclaimer- **Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version in partnership with Warner Bros.

**A/N: **_**Thank you to all who reviewed! They are appreciated!**_** AGAIN **this is** NOT **the last chapter, I will be writing _**one**_ more chapter.

**Taphephobia**

Chapter 6- They must be Suffered to Slumber

* * *

**Taphephobia:** Fear of being buried alive.

…..

A shiver ran up his spine, but he couldn't let it show, not with the little girl running around his bedroom, taking in every little gesture he made and then asking him why I did it.

_Madeline…_

It was strange seeing her face.

While trapped, Holmes had a completely different face for her; one that his mind created to fit her voice.

Trapped…

His side began to ache, tremors pounded on his chest.

_Stop! You're out! You're fine! _

He wasn't afraid anymore; he wasn't afraid to begin with. He was free, he was alive, he was breathing and talking and…

_Dammit, stop shaking!_

"Mr. Holmes," the woman knocked before coming in, even though the door was wide open and her little _creation_ was running mad around his bed. "I sent my boy to the address you gave me. I would expect your brother to be here in no more than a couple of hours." Holmes's eyes fell to the sheets covering the lower half of his body.

He told the woman Watson was his brother in hopes that she would be in more of a hurry to send for him. If she knew he was just a friend, she might not have seen it as such an importance, that or argued that the detective should send for a family member…

Shakily, he reached for the cup of water on the table next to his bed and brought it to his lips.

The last person he wanted to see him like this was Mycroft.

"Are you dead?" Madeline asked for the third time in one day. Holmes answered with a curt "No" and turned his head out the window. Maybe if he ignored her, she would get bored and go away.

* * *

….

An hour later, it was officially dusk.

The sky was red and orange, getting darker by the minute. Madeline was put to bed,_ finally_, and Holmes was left alone.

Only hours ago he had spoke with the woman's husband, one of the men who found him.

The man's name was George Handle, the graveyard's caretaker. He was pleasant, a family man for sure, but oddly cautious of what he said and how he said it in front of the man he had found dying in a coffin beneath a boulder in his graveyard.

The man's assumption that Holmes's mental state was anything less than before he'd been trapped infuriated the detective to no end.

Of course, physically, he wasn't quite back to normal just yet, but mentally?

Ha! He was already over it.

He kept telling himself.

"Do you need anything, Mr. Holmes?" The woman asked as she stopped in the doorway of the room.

"Another glass of water, if you don't mind." The woman gave him a small smile and nodded, her footsteps fading down the hall.

A glass of water.

What if Handle hadn't been there to hear him?

What if he was left to die in his own waste, his life sputtering away while he consciously stared into the dark?

Holmes swallowed the sinking feeling in his stomach and grimaced.

It was foolish to dwell on such things. What did it matter now? Handle _did_ find him. He was safe, he was breathing, he was sitting up…

It was over.

….

_You're not dreaming._

_You're not dead_.

….

* * *

...

"_Ethelred's restaurant. You remember where that is, don't you?"_

"Stay here. It's too dangerous, you'll be alone."

"I wouldn't be going alone if-" Holmes stopped, the feeling that he'd said this before sitting on the end of his tongue.

He was on the floor, nothing out of the ordinary, kneeling in a pile of papers. Notes, maps, descriptions, directions… all scribbled down in a messy fashion across the wrinkled and ripped pages.

He was in his room at 221 Baker Street. His possessions littered the wood floor and completely covered all tables and chairs.

Everything was normal,

It seemed.

"Holmes, it's me. Can you hear me?" Watson suddenly blurted. The detective lifted his head at the odd statement.

"What sort of question is that? Of course I c-"

He turned to face his colleague, stopping mid sentence at the scene; nothing…er no one.

"I suppose no promises were broken…"

There was no one there. The doorway was empty.

"…You didn't answer me when I asked you."

He was alone, but why could he still hear him?

"Watson?" The sound of a door slamming shut painfully cracked in his ears. "Watson!"

"If the fire goes out," The whisper whistled passed him and died away. "the room will get cold."

"If the…the room will…" He repeated. He'd heard that before. The haunting words seemed to be carved in his mind like a scarring memory.

"Are you a vampire?" A little voice suddenly broke him from his stupor. "Mamma!" It screeched.

"Madeline." Handle's daughter. What was she doing at Baker Street?

"You never answered me…" Watson said again with a bit more force.

"Answered what? What did you ask? Where's Madeline?"

"…The room will get cold…"

Holmes kicked the pile of papers, scattering them across the floor.

"Stop saying that! Where are you?" He shouted, his face reddening with anger.

"Here." The voice changed abruptly. It was deeper now, thicker.

Holmes turned on his heel, following the now down to earth sound coming from behind him.

There, standing in front of the open window, was John Watson.

He wore a light grey coat and matching pants (his favorite set, if Holmes wasn't mistaken) holding a black leather bound book in his right hand and a pistol in his left.

"I told you." Watson hissed. The pistol in his left hand rose slowly, its barrel pointed at the other man's head.

"John…"

"You shouldn't have gone alone, I told you. Now look what you've done." Something about his friend's voice didn't match up. It was deeper… rough sounding….nasally, it didn't…

"I'm afraid you've eavesdropped on the wrong person, my friend..."

The detective's mind went blank.

The floor beneath his feet creaked and gave out underneath him causing him to fall back, the man, still standing safely on the unbroken floor above, changing back and forth from Watson to Moriarty's thug.

"Wake up!" The man shouted as he disappeared.

A burning coffin flashed in front of his face as he fell.

Just fell.

Falling and falling…

"Wake up! Holmes, stop this!"

….

* * *

...

"Wake up!"

A sharp gasp mixed with a soft yelp filled the small room and lingered.

Was it him that yelped? He couldn't think…

"Holmes,"

His eyes snapped open and focused on the ceiling. He was lying flat. His body melted against the soft bed holding him.

He didn't hit the ground.

"Holmes,"

That voice.

Why was he so cold?

"Are you in any pain?"

Groggily, he pulled the bed sheets up from his waist to his shoulders. His shirt was unbuttoned again; he realized when his cold hand brushed his bare chest as he pulled the blanket over it.

"Holmes, will you answer me?" The voice was demanding and short, a hint of anger mixed with worry lased in between its words.

He felt miserable. Trembling, shaking… It was odd because he was so comfortable lying on that bed, but his insides seemed to twist, protesting that he feel any relief at all.

"Look at me, Holmes…" A hand clasped gently around his wrist. The detective thought, for a moment, that he should pull away, but his arm never responded.

"Holmes, I said look at me!" The hand was on his face now, trying to tilt his gaze to the side, but his eyes wouldn't leave the ceiling.

Where's Madeline? What hour is it?

"Sherlock!"

He jumped at the sound of his own name.

His stomach crawled with an unexplainable fear…

A fear? No it wasn't fear. It was never fear.

He was _not_ afraid.

Finally obeying, Holmes let his eyes fall upon the man who had so impatiently demanded Holmes's attention.

The smell of damp clothing, tea, and wet grass were the first sensations to snap the detective back to reality; the next was short light brown hair… dark suspenders over a white shirt… blue eyes…

Watson.

Seeing that his friend was now looking at him, the other man moved from the chair onto the edge of the bed, being careful not to touch his friend's bandaged side.

The doctor looked tired, run down, and messy; a rarity for a man who prided himself on always looking decent.

"Watson." Holmes said quietly as if greeting a man he'd only just seen an hour or two ago.

Watson's hand fell away from his face, but the almost horror stricken expression the doctor wore ceased to fade.

Had he said something in his sleep? Did he really look that terrible?

No. Holmes swallowed his words and quickly decided that asking would probably not have been appropriate… his poor friend looked like he hadn't slept in days. Watson must have noticed the confused look he was receiving and forced himself to smile if only to calm the hurt and shaken man that he had for days searched desperately to find.

"They told me." He said simply, his magnificent blue eyes clinging to Holmes's as if the man might disappear if he dared look away.

"Yes?" Holmes choked out before coughing on the dry throat that one never knows one has until they speak. The human body never fails to humiliate…

Watson hurried to hand him the glass of water and he eagerly accepted it.

"And what exactly did they tell you, John? That I was found on the brink of death, trapped in a box that nearly destroyed my sanity? Embroider a pair of shoes, but they will still only be _just _a pair of shoes…"

"Don't twist this, don't try to rush past this," The doctor hissed, taking the empty glass from Holmes's hand and setting it on the floor at his feet. "Holmes, you almost died…a terrible one…a slow one… Don't lie to me; don't tell me you're brushing this off-"

"What are you looking for then_, doctor_?" He didn't mean to spit Watson's occupation, to disrespect... "For me to crumble before you? For me to …"

He didn't know what he was saying anymore, but his mouth kept moving…kept degrading the man who was more family to him than his own blood brother; who had probably searched in every nook and cranny only to fail and be left no other alternative then to sit and wait… hour after hour hating himself for not going with him, wishing he had tried harder to stop him…

How cruel of a person could he be to say the things he was saying to this man right now? How could he be so heartless and ungrateful?

His chest tightened… his face heated up… He was so sorry he could hardly stand the pain, but his mouth still shouted… still insulted.

Before he thought he would explode into a pride crushing, mortifying, and overwhelming display of emotion, he was suddenly pulled forward into a strong and unavoidable embrace, his best friend holding him tightly against his chest.

Not a second of uncomfortable awkwardness passed between them as a breath of air the detective must have been holding in his lungs since he was first knocked out at the restaurant, released.

"I hope you accept my apolog-"

"No need for that..." Watson's voice was low and understanding. "It's good to see you, old boy."

A ghost of a smile crossed Holmes's lips…a smile that was short lived once he thought about what the younger man had said to him.

Funny, it sounded so much like... Yes, very funny... very...

Panic shot through his body like a bolt of angry lightning. Watson must have felt his body convulse because he pulled back roughly and took the man by the upper arms.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" Watson asked his eyes darting to the fresh bandage covering the other man's side.

"No," Holmes answered quickly. The doctor made an uncertain face. "No, don't be ridiculous, I just …" He just what? What was his excuse for almost having a panic attack in his friend's embrace? "I…"

He couldn't breathe again.

"You just… I heard…" He tried explaining. Watson put his hand up for silence.

"Would you be well enough to leave in the morning?"

"I am well enough to leave now!"

"No, you'll stay the rest of the night." His friend said with a "don't argue" look and stood up from the bed.

"You're not leaving…?" Holmes questioned. Watson couldn't help but see a tiny glimpse of fear flash in the detective's eyes…

"No." He answered quietly, his mind still wrapped around what he had seen. "I'll stay and leave with you, that is, if you're well enough. These are good people, Holmes, they won't mind you resting another day or two-"

"No, Watson, tomorrow is fine. I'm fine. I'm just… tired."

Both of them doubted that.

* * *

A/N: "Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them." – Edgar Allan Poe


End file.
